I, Edward
by inktheory
Summary: Edward sits in Winry's room quietly as if trying to disappear. He looks at himself in the mirror: he is, no was, the Fullmetal alchemist. He is also Edward Elric. But who is Edward, what kind of a person is he? He doesn't know.
1. Chapter 1

**I, Edward.**

By _inktheory._

Chapter ONE. The Meaning of Humanity.

So I would have had him leave,

So I would have had her stand and grieve,

So he would have last.

As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,

As the mind deserts the body it has used.

I should find

Some way incomparably light and deft,

Some way we both should understand,

Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.

-T.S. Eliot

La Figlia Che Piange.

--

Don't forget 3 Oct 10.

Winry still recalled the writing on the silver watch. It was first and foremost among many of her memories of the Elric brothers. This particular one was hard to forget.

Curious enough, the incident happened in october too, after almost ten years. Winry never learned the exact date, because they didn't tell her – and she wasn't even aware of the situation until _he_ was brought to her on the night of a raging thunderstorm, not looking much different from the day Edward and Alphonse had tried to bring their mother back.

Ten years had not changed Winry too much from the outside – Edward and Alphonse's parting from their world was followed by Pinako's death after two years. Though sometimes it discouraged her from continuing with her life, being cold-hearted seemed to be the only way out for Winry. After a certain period of time, it even became easier for her.

Several years spent fluttering from internship to internship in Rush Valley and badgering Mr. Tommy to take her in as a disciple eventually led her home, back to Risembool four years before the incident, and to her surprise, she was _fine._ Not achy-breaky, not without a head on her soulders At certain times, nostalgic, yes, but overall fine.

Then of course, something had to happen to turn the world upside down again. Not only _her_ world, she dared to venture, but apparently the game was not over in either case. The return of the prodigal Fullmetal Alchemist had caused quite an uproar in the millitary. Of course, they didn't tell anything to _her_, but Winry didn't care, because people had a habit of doing that ever since forever. The only important thing was that he had returned, at least for her.

There were rumors flying around, naturally. The young man had been found on the outskirts of central, in the center of a black, ashen yet non-existent crater, a strange sight even for those who had witnessed the opening of the gate of shambles, or whatever it was called, in Lior. It was a large blurred outline of something that had _imploded_ into central somehow, and then had disappeared. And in the center of it, there was a pile of shivering clothes, which the millitary officers who had found it discovered (after certain rude questions, catcalls and poking with rifles) to be a wreck of a human being formerly known as the Fullmetal Alchemist.

Not responding to anything said to him, quivering, and running a high fever, Edward Elric refused to eat or drink, and was immediately transferred to the hospital wing of the unit he had been most familiar with – that of the Flame Alchemist and his subordinates.

Roy Mustang was (avoiding) signing papers when he recieved the news. He was surprisingly quick to take matters into his hands. His subordinates watched the silent process in unflattering disbelief. Mustang knew he was not perfect, but he had decided that while some mistakes were inevitable, one particular mistake could not be repeated twice. He had made that promise to himself on the day of Maes Hughes' burial.

The doctors were pleased to see a sign of recognition for the first time since he had arrived on the boy's face, even if it was an extreme one. Upon the arrival of the flame alchemist, he launched into the process of wailing loudly, and had to be restrained if the man tried to approach his bed. For several days, there were no intelligent words exhanged between the two.

Though the colonel had to admit that Edward was acting crazy, he did not blame him for it. It would pass at some point, however long it took, because the fullmetal alchemist was strong, and definitely stronger than him. To put it more simply, he seemed to be going through the same ordeal the colonel himself had went through after the war in Ishbal – he couldn't do anything about it, but he could at least stand by the boy, as Hughes had done.

"Colonel..."

Roy Mustang jumped in his chair and struck a flame out of sheer reflex. It was a habit of his: he would react this was if he was startled out of his sleep. Regaining his composure in a fleeting few seconds, he realized that the boy was sitting up, though he did not know for how long. He kicked himself mentally for falling asleep on the job. "Fullmetal," he said, trying to sound calm, "you're awake." _What a stupid thing to say to him after all this_, he added to himself.

"I couldn't sleep," Edward replied in a voice hoarsened from not being used for a long time, except for crying or screaming. There was a pause, and Mustang found himself wishing he was a woman, _no, stupid idea, idiot,_ or at least not a soldier, leave alone his superior, so he would be free to display some emotion. There was an aching silence for a moment, and Edward ended it by asking "Am I dead?"

_He thinks he's dead_, the colonel said to himself in awe, _I wonder if he sees this place as heaven or hell_, but he had to sense to not state his thoughts out loud. "Of course not," he chose to snap reasonably, in his superior voice, "you're in the hospital wing, at Central."

"So it's true..." Edward said faintly, paling, if it was possible, more than he already was. Mustang thought he would burst into tears yet again, but he didn't – apparently he was done with that part, and was straining to act like his old self, though failing miserably, as Roy could see it in his eyes. "What's true?" he wanted to ask Fullmetal, but the boy spoke first:

"When are you going to execute me?" he asked, causing Roy's eyes to widen slightly. He couldn't even snap this time. "_What the hell are you talking about Fullmetal?"_ he was able to ask himself instead, but was startled out of his thoughts when the boy grabbed his hand. It was cold. He realized that it was his auto-mail one.

"Al..." he said, before Mustang could react to the contact.

"Wha-"

"Al," Edward repeated croakily, the hand gripping his shaking furiously. his facial expressions worked horribly, as if he was experiencing severe pain. "I killed him."

--

"The remains indicate the opening and sealing of an alchemic gate," Armstrong explained as they toured the spot they had found Edward with a group of state alchemists. He eyed the group in disgust, most of them were eyeing the burns keenly as if this was some sort of a zoo, and as if Edward Elric was the animal in the cage. It was fortunate that no one was allowed to see the boy.

"But how would the boy open the gate?" one of them asked. "He couldn't have," another voice replied. It belonged to Roy Mustang. "He was too weak to be able to unleash that much power. It requires a great deal to transmute something like that."

"Maybe he was looking so fucked up because he used that much power," the other state alchemist insisted. "No," Mustang replied, "because the gate was opened _and_ sealed as Major Armstrong said, and to do both is impossible for a single human being, he would either not be able to make it here, or be found dead." _Smarmy bastard_, he added as an afterthought.

"Then who was his accomplice?" another state alchemist asked. "We don't know that—" Armstrong started.

"His brother Alphonse," Roy stated. Everyone looked at him in surprise. Before anyone could say anything that would probably cause Roy to burn everything in the vicinity to cinders, he went on "though the details of the situation are unclear, there was a situation of mortal peril in which the younger brother sacrificed himself in order to save the fullmetal alchemist."

"What exactly—"

"Is Fullmetal to be interrogated?"

"Where was—"

"Colonel!"

That afternoon Winry recieved a phone call from the Amestris Armed Forces, inquiring whether she would accept a connect-call to Central. "Sure thing," she acknowledged the operator. "Afternoon Sciezka, how are the aliens?"

"Can I speak to Dr. Winry Rockbell?" a familiar – yet bewildered – voice asked. Winry went a bright shade of red. She had not been embarrassed this much, not since Ed and Al had simultaneously proposed to her from beneath her window. In the middle of the night. Singing "Daisy, daisy". And all the while fighting. _Concentrate_, she slapped her forehead mentally. _Stop thinking about them, they're gone._ "Hai!" she squeaked, "Colonel Mustang. How are—"

"Winry-san," Roy interrupted her. "Are you available this night?"

She froze. Roy Mustang, who – given the circumstances of her parents – tried (subtly) to avoid her when they were faced, was calling her from a millitary line to ask her out?"

"Colonel Mustang, I don't—" she started. "You have your own house, yes?" he barked impatiently. "I – yes, but..." _How bold_, she thought. _Did he finish with all the girls in Central?_

"And you're not going out of town, burning the place down or committing suicide in the next couple of hours?" Roy went on in the same impatient tone. "I should think not!" Winry replied, clearly scandalized.

"Fine," the Colonel said brusquely, "I will be there at ten o'clock sharp with Fullmetal. I appreciate your help, Winry-san." The phone went dead with a click.

Fullmetal. _Edward_. "But that can't be true!" Winry shrieked at the dial tone. "How can that be true?"

--

"Winry?" Edward asked with a hint of surprise. "when did you contact her?" His tone was neutral, but Roy could detect the excitement in it. _I made the right decision then_, he smiled to himself. _The boy will recover quicker there._

"A few hours ago," he said non-chalantly. "She will be expecting you."

"What were you thinking Colonel?" Edward said. Roy turned away from the window to look at him. He did not seem to be angry, but worried. "Winry is going to hate me when she learns what happened, I can't stay there. Why don't you just—"

"There is no reason to kill you Fullmetal," Roy said swiftly. "We've already been through this. Alphonse did this of his own free will."

"Yeah, well Al is a bit of an idiot who can't think of himself in dangerous situations!" Edward retorted, grumpily. He still wouldn't talk about his brother in past tense, and Roy was in no hurry to correct him in the near future.

"He did it to save you," he said in a hard voice, "I would respect his decision if I were you, and stop being a child. Be ready in an hour in front of the main gate. A car will be taking us to the station."

The finality of his tone seemed to be the thing that silenced Edward. His lips moved in a soft mumble, and he scowled – to himself – but did not pursue to subject. However, he did call out "Mustang!" just as Roy was shutting the door. Up to this point, the younger alchemist had always acknowledge him as "colonel". In fact, it had been so since the day they had first spoken on the phone, nearly ten years ago. It seemed to be his way of showing he was cutting himself away from being a dog of the millitary.

"Yes Fu—Edward?" Roy asked. _Edward,_ he repeated, _Edward Elric. Edward. Ed. Edward. _"Are you sure?" Edward inquired in a tentative voice. The colonel sighed. "You said yourself that you did not want to be a state alchemist anymore," he replied, "in that case, you don't have to be here." There was a slight pause. "I don't want people poking and prodding into your life. You have enough on your mind already, staying here will just make you feel miserable."

"Miserable," Edward mumbled. Several other words, among which Roy recognized "worthless", "fool" and "murderer" were uttered. "Winry-san," he went on, shutting his ears to the running commentary from the boy, "will help you. She will be able to give you the compassion you are denied here."

"Compassion," Edward repeated in a dazed voice. He stared at his hands for a second, and for the umpteenth time, Roy wondered if he was going to start crying. But when he lifted his head and nodded at him, he couldn't help but notice that there was a slight twinkle of his old self there. "Thank you," the colonel said. "What for?" Edward replied in surprise.

"For trying, Full—Edward."

--

Edward.

Edward was coming back.

Winry spent the rest of the day and all of the evening in a complete haze and daze. A case rested on the dinner table, her best piece of work yet. She had recently re-arranged this set of auto-mail, adding an inch's length. According to the graph, Edward must have grown three inches since she last changed his auto-mail.

She also ran around, tidying up the house, straightening the sheets she had gotten out every ten minutes, and straightening her hair, less frequently, but definitely more than she normally did.

"Stop it!" she stuck her tongue out at the mirror after a while. "You don't know what it's going to be like, how he's going to be. Maybe he doesn't want this, or maybe he's sick, or injured or Al—"

Her train of thought came to a halt with a sickening crunch.

The colonel had said nothing about Al.

Winry had spent ten years getting her to accept she was a cold-hearted adult, that she was used to this and felt fine about it. That afternoon, however, she sat down at the dinner table and resting her head on the auto-mail case, she wept.

--

The journey passed without any incident. There were few words exchanged between the two alchemists. edward sat down in foreboding silence, displaying no hint of emotion. Roy did not push the subject – after all, they had reached an agreement.

He did however, pause as they were walking to the house in the darkness. Sensing that the boy had something to say, Roy too stopped in his tracks.

"Mustang," he turned to face him, extending his fist. He opened it slowly, as if he was going through an inner conflict. "I told you I did not want to be a state alchemist anymore," he said, "so there." He shrugged his shoulder imperceptibly, as if trying to shake off his second-thoughts, and handed Roy his silver watch. "Take it." The cold metal was pushed into his gloved hands when Roy hesitated.

"Edward," Roy said. "thank you."

The young alchemist raised his eyebrows. "Really?" he asked with a hint of amusement, "don't you already have one?"

"Thank you for trying," the colonel completed his sentence. "and for having the courage to go on."

He knocked. Not surprisingly, the door flew open immediately to reveal the out-of-breath automail mechanic, who looked as if she had run across the country.

There was a strange silence between the three of them. _An okay silence_, the colonel mused, _just awkwardness I presume._

"W—Winry..." Edward stuttered, breaking the silence.

Clang.

_And apparently what Armstrong said about the wrench is true_, Mustang roared with laughter, at himself, of course. He would never openly cut into a sentimental moment.

"Ed, you idiot!"

Author's notes:

-I debated whether I should do a manga-based fic or an anime-based one and decided on the anime, though there might be slight twists of the plot thrown in (nothing important though) from the manga. Because I'm evil, and take amusement from screwing up FMA.

-Reviews are appreciated, though I'd be grateful if you didn't flame me – such as "OMG, u killed all teh characters off I HATE YOU". I'm not "killing them off". Character death has happened before in FMA, and stuff that happens here happens for the plot and not because I enjoy it. That would be like having characters make out for fun. I tried to address the most probable protest here, so there you are.


	2. Chapter 2

**I, Edward.**

_By inktheory._

Disclaimer: It appears I forgot to write one the last time – believe me, it wasn't because I own FMA. Who knows what would have happened if I did?

Wow, I've got reviews! This is the first time I've got reviews for something I've written. Am I chuffed. Thanks everyone! So...prepare for one more chapter of angsty-angst, tears and whatnot – then we will have all filled up our grief quota, and be able to have some fun at last for the next chapter, not a bag of sunshine but at least won't be depressing, I promise.

TWO. The Meaning of Identity.

I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself as a king of infinite space, were it not that I had bad dreams.

-W. Shakespeare

"Hamlet"

"You're such an idiot, Edward."

The boy who once was the fullmetal alchemist sat quietly, his head bent over, making his whole body appear from the outside as a solitary, empty shell. Winry's "room" – more like a junkyard of tools and bits and pieces of auto-mail equipment strewn over the place – was empty, as she had gone down to the marketplace. A cat had broken its leg, or something like that. _Al liked cats_, Edward reminisced quietly. While almost every instant he remembered his brother was a guilt-ridden scream in his heart, this one came out as a calmer, accepting heartbeat: a fond memory.

--

"Alphonse-kun," first lieutenant Hawkeye would say. "Exactly how many cats do you have inside your armor?" It was almost sad to _feel_ him blushing, but not being able to see it. "Seven," he would say in embarrassment, "including the mother."

"Pray tell," colonel Mustang would ask, sarcasm dripping from his voice, "how many can you fit in there?"

"Thirty-three," Alphonse would respond in his squeaky voice, _the_ squeaky voice. The one he would use when their mother scolded him.

"What, you actually _tried_?" someone would ask. Probably Havoc, Edward wasn't sure.

"Don't ask..." Edward would mutter in exasperation.

--

The blond boy lifted his head and looked into the chipped mirror standing at the furthest part of the room. He didn't even know Winry had a mirror. _Winry _is _a girl I suppose_, he finally acknowledged – not that he had denied it before. It was just that Edward did not know many girls personally. "I recieved no training on picking up girls," he remembered warrant officer Falman telling Fuery a long time ago. Edward felt the same way. Due to this, he had unconsciously accepted Winry as _just_ Winry instead of _a girl_. Doing things otherwise would have probably made him feel awkward.

But would things change?

_They've already changed, baka._ He looked at himself in the mirror and lifted his hands to stare at them through the glass. "Fullmetal," he said to his image. "I am the Fullmetal Alchemist, Edward Elric."

He unconsciously reached out to himself in the mirror, expecting to find something he had lost inside his image. _Clink._ The sound of the auto-mail hands pressed against each other – one belonging to the boy in the room, and the other to the one in the mirror – broke the illusion. Edward shook his head.

No, I'm not. Not anymore.

Ah, but what then? Edward was twenty-five, and almost as far as he could go back he had been the fullmetal alchemist. It was just a name given by someone, true, but for Edward it had been one of the many reflections of his purpose. It was not because he had wanted this, but because he had been obligated to, because of their sin, because of Alphonse and his promise to one another – but now that he had unredeemably failed, he had lost his purpose.

He had automatically assumed that when one lost their purpose, they lost their right to live. His only purpose had been protecting his brother, his other half, the only one who had always been there for him, except for mother – but they had already proven how good they were at protecting her. Now that he had failed him, didn't that mean he deserved to die?

He would think, and think. And at this point in his train of thought, he would become utterly perplexed. They had not let him die, because they hadn't wanted to. Mustang said it wasn't his fault. The words he said, when he repeated them to himself at night under his breath – they sounded stupid, even in his head. But when he spoke, Edward had believed him. Not only believed him, but known it to be true. He smiled ruefully. Colonel Roy Mustang, he said his name under his breath, and thought of all the nasty adjectives he had come up with to call behind him. Now that they had parted, he could not think of new ones. So maybe he had really stopped being the fullmetal alchemist.

Yet if he had stopped being the person he had been all his life, who was he now?

I am Edward, he thought to the mirror.

"Edward," he said, and his voice echoed softly in the room, resonating from the pieces of metal. Edward wondered if they would continue to echo "Edward, Edward," faintly when he left, whether Winry would be able to hear them. On the other hand, he was not so sure Winry would like "Edward". She didn't really know him, did she?

Not to mention it, neither did he.

--

When she found him, he was curled up in a ball in front of the mirror, his face hidden by the locks of untidy hair. She could only see the muscles on the back of his neck, strained and rippling slightly in angry lines.

For a few seconds, she could only be shocked. After last night, she must have unconsciously taken things to be completely normal. Edward had not spoken much, though even less than he usually did when he was feeling quiet, and sat behind a serious mask until he offered to call it a night, he had a tiring journey. Apart from the awkwardness, there had been nothing out of the ordinary. But today...should she shake him? Tell him to get a grip? Or maybe just leave?

No, you get a grip, she scolded herself after a few seconds. Did you expect him to act as if nothing had happened? If what she had heard from the colonel was true, she must not measure the magnitude of his grief by her units – for they were not the same. This would have happened sooner or later, and the only thing she could do – at least for the time being – was to be there.

"Ed," she ventured, placing her hands on his shoulders tentatively. He did not lift his head, but she saw his hands shake slightly, and the muscles on the back of his neck tensed even more, if that was possible. She mentally kicked herself in the head, why don't I know what to say?

"I'm so sorry Ed..."

Gripping his shoulders tightly, she pulled his body towards himself, which showed no resistance, but was jerky and limp, like a bundle of packed metal cords being dragged across a rough surface.

Winry felt tense, as she had never hugged the boy before, not like this, but she was probably not as tense as Edward was. She was surprised that she had the courage to do this, and even more so that she could restrain herself from running away. Holding him was like trying to cling to something that did not want to exist anymore, something like an invalid metal body, only with warmer, human temperature. He doesn't want to live, Winry realized with horror, then but won't he live for me, at least?

I'm so selfish.

She held him harder, the arms that encircling his back almost suffocating him, just to make sure that he was real, that this was real, and it was Edward that she was holding in her arms, and not a sack of auto-mail. I'm so selfish, she repeated, but if that's the only thing that will make you live – then so be it.

Then surprisingly, something happened. Something not good or bad, but at least something, that changed the flow and gave her hope. She felt the frame of the alchemist pressed against her shaking, the head resting on her shoulder too, causing wisps of hair to tickle her cheeks. It only took her a minute to realize that the boy was crying, not openly, but in somewhat, dry, racking sobs – a strange expression of grief, yet a sincere, human one.

"Ed?" she repeated his name for the third time, not really expecting a response. "Winry," he said though, startling her, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "is this okay?" He still seemed to be crying, as his voice came out in a coarse, strangled rasp.

Is he afraid that I'll scold him for this, she wondered. Why would he think that? Then again, this was one of those few times she was not forcing him to speak his mind, and he was doing it of his own free will, and she should be alright with that. She recalled all the times he would thrash and cry in his sleep, running a high fever, telling things all night that he pretended no one had heard the next day. This time, they both knew it, so it had to be okay.

"I'm okay," she said tentatively, brushing a tendril of hair out of his face. "Okay..." she repeated, to assure both of them. He shifted slightly to wrap his arms around her and his head slid down slightly so it was resting on her lap.

"Let's not talk..." he finally murmured, re-adjusting his position. Winry felt his nose brush against her clothes, and his breath seemed to go through the fabric and hit her skin. It did not take too long before she felt it become more even, and to realize that he had fallen asleep.

--

"A complete tear in the gastrocnemius and soleus muscles," Winry explained that afternoon as they ate, talking about her day and Nothing in Particular, mostly to get him talking. It was not like he wouldn't open his mouth if she didn't force him, yet he was so – colorless. His responses were dull and without feeling, and she would sometimes feel him slipping away at no particular reason. "they were going to put it the sleep as it had already lost so much blood, luckily I had picked up the word from the bakery." Her voice trailed off at his vacant expression, and she stood up with a sigh to pick up the plates from the table, and rinse them.

"I wish I'd known this technique before," she went on, her back turned as she scrubbed grime off the plates. "then poor Den wouldn't have to suffer all those extra pieces we had to wedge in for months until we got it properly."

Edward had said "let's not talk", but it didn't mean that she couldn't do the talking, did it?

Edward.

It was as if he was a baby now, the baby he had not had the chance to be his entire life, the way he had locked up countless emotions, had always gone on about how Alphonse was the one who wore his heart on his sleave, not him. The same way he had pretended he had never said those things in his sleep, had not been angry when she had opened his silver watch, had not called her a fool. So she wouldn't talk.

She would not talk about it, not as she cleaned up, nor made his bed in the spare room, washing the sheets every day even though they had not been slept on. Edward would watch her with blank eyes as she did the laundry, as he followed her everywhere, except when she went out for work. Occasionally, she would shoot a glance at him defiantly, daring to come back at night, after all the trouble she was going through washing his stuff for him. Yet she would still let him come, even if she dared him not to do so. It seemed to be a feeble attempt to bring back an old spark inside him, more than a resistance to the occurence itself.

She had been startled the first night. The indifferent, child-like manner he had displayed when his footsteps shuffled into the room had startled him. She hadn't known if he was sleepwalking or was awake. In either case, he would flop down on the bed with a dull thump, wrap his arms around her and nuzzling his face into her neck, fall asleep instantly, clinging to her limply throughout the night. If she tried to remove the arms encircling her neck or move, for that matter, he would whimper sleepily and clutch her harder, muttering unintelligable words.

Winry knew not to think the worst of him, but this game was new to her. She had always cared about them more than everything, but they had been her brothers, and although there were instances she had wanted to be more than a friend, that had never changed. Now she found herself struggling to be...motherly.

Honestly, she would rather stomp outside and get drunk like there was no tomorrow, but she couldn't do that to him. Not right now. His lips moved against her skin in his sleep, to form fragmented words of sorrow, among which the only two she was able to distinguish being "sorry" and "Ed". She did not know whether he was apologizing to her, to himself or just generally being sorry about everything in his miserable existence – she wouldn't ask, not right now. When Ed wants to talk, she repeated to herself. And days followed days, followed days. Not until something happened to change things.

A/N: Reviews make a happy camper, folks. I've basicly got the whole thing planned out, just not written as neatly as it's supposed to be like in a chapter, so the next chapter will be coming out in a few days, until then:

OMG cookie OMG OMG

"Winry?"

Her heart sank several feet, standing right behind him was Edward, the supreme extended edition, complete with his pajama bottoms and the shirt he had been wearing for days, because he refused to get it off so she could wash it. The shirt was accompanied by a pouting face. _Oh no, Ed, you have to go back inside._

"Winry, are you going out this morning for work? Why didn't you tell me last night that you were going out this morning?"

She clapped her hand to her forehead. Mentally. By no means could she express the embarrassment she felt outwardly.

"Winry?"

OMG end of cookie"


	3. Chapter 3

**I, Edward.**

_By inktheory._

Disclaimer: Me no own FMA.

-And here we are with yet another chapter, twice as long as I had planned it, but that's better I guess, since I took longer than I had intended to post it. I'm sorry I'm late, there was this load of stuff piled on me from school, plus work. I had this chapter written, but I hadn't been beta-read, then because I write ahead and wasn't satisfied with my storyline things grew long, and so did the waiting space between updates. Anyway, thanks to everyone who reviewed, and now you get to see Ed in his pajamas cookies. Cookies are good, and so are reviews. Hint hint

THREE. The Meaning of Emotion: a tribute to human nature.

I see thee yet, in form as palpable  
As this which now I draw.  
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going;  
And such an instrument I was to use.

-W.Shakespeare

"Macbeth"

Edward gets up early in the morning, like he is used to, like how he once used to brag at Colonel Mustang that he was always late. Even without paying particularly close attention, Winry can hear the small Ed-like whimpers and scratches issuing from the bathroom. While she debates that while she can perhaps grow accustomed to the scraping of auto-mail (it is her job after all, even more so with Granny gone), she _knows_ for a fact that she won't be getting used to him crying – even more so now that he isn't only weeping in his sleep or crying out during a fever, now that they are _both_ aware that he is doing it.

"Dammit Mustang, not only are you an extended arrogant berk, you are also incapable of keeping your drawers tidy!"

Edward Elric was pulling drawers out of the desk, looking for...well, something he didn't actually know, but had set out in a slapdash way to find "reports" on the Ishbal war. He did not know what he would do if he _did_ manage to find something – he would obtain a clue from it...at some point.

Contrary to popular belief, Edward was not an organized person. Those who did not know him closely would assume so, as they would think it the only way one so (ahem) _tiny_ could march his miniscule way up to the central and obtain a state alchemist's licence. He was fairly studious, though not as much as his brother he would say, and extremely disciplined, but had a lax agenda, and was often impulsive. Besides, it was _fun_ to crash the bastard's office. It was his way of showing he wasn't doing _everything_ he was ordered to.

"What's this Colonel, a locked drawer?" Edward laughed, "wonder if I can frame you with _this_ one?" Clearly delighted out of his duty, though careful enough to keep his silence, he peered into the keyhole. With a soft smile, Edward brought his hands together to compose, in a manner of speaking, and within seconds, was holding up his index finger in the form of a key.

There was a faint click, and Edward uttered the faintest "Hah!" of triumph, and made to pull the drawer out. Before that, though, he shot a glance of precaution at the time. He mustn't stall, after all, Edward doesn't want to get caught and even the look on Roy Mustang's face if he sees this isn't going to change that.

The sky was dark for five o'clock in the morning. With a faint trace of surprise, Edward noted the rain. From the look of the blurred outlines of landscape from the Colonel's window, it had been raining for quite a time, actually – funny that he hadn't noticed it before. He shrugged, and there was a soft thump as the drawer came out, a little too quickly.

Apparently it was empty.

Fancy the Colonel keeping a locked drawer empty! The git probably did it to annoy me, Edward said to himself. Never mind that he wasn't supposed to be going through the flame alchemist's things in the first place, Edward was annoyed as he would be when (ahem) _small_ matters are discussed.

But wait! For there was something stuck in the back, a piece of paper from the looks of it, and Edward cackled to himself (Got you _now_, you bastard), his annoyance forgotten. The piece of paper showed little resistance to being pulled out.

And behold, Edward went superbly scarlet. Perhaps even more than usual when he was embarrassed by the older alchemist.

It was not a paper, but an old photograph. Quite old, from the look of it – the tattered corners and the faded color. There was a slight tear and a bit of a kink in the middle, as if someone had started tearing it up but had decided against it afterwards.

Suddenly, Edward understood how Winry had felt when she had opened his silver watch and looked into it, and how he had been angry – for his privacy, for his pride, and for the sake of his struggle. He had tried to search for a reason to be strong in himself back then, and someone seeing him struggle in the process had injured him.

He froze briefly in his thoughts before returning to the office. Mustang must not find out, was his next thought. In a manner too impeccable even for him, he carefully spared a last glance at the photograph. "Hughes looks the same as he always used to be," he muttered to himself, "And that's typical of Mustang to scowl like that, even in a photo with his friend." But then, even though it would take him an admirable length of time to admit it to himself, the boy decided that he did not know Roy Mustang as well as he always used to make assumptions about.

"Fullmetal..."

Ed turned his face away from the pouring rain pattering against the window to glance briefly at Mustang. Almost half an hour had elapsed after re-locking the drawer and securing that everything else was in its place, followed by a brief note-to-self on his mission ("Achievements: total failure. Shit.") The rain had not stopped, and was possibly even raining harder than when he had noticed it. "Colonel," he grinned slightly, "Did you _notice_? It's raining. A lot."

"Quite," he remarked wryly, "I couldn't help but notice. After all, with such a _small_ interference with my view out of the front window-" His words were cut abruptly by tiny explosions of anger, now a daily occurance to him. Initially, Edward Elric's behavior had amused him a great deal, hence the time spent on provoking him.

Nowadays, though, he would do it out of habit. Not that this meant that habitual occurences were boring or annoying for the Colonel. Roy Mustang was a man of habits. He liked his inertia, and though he was pretty sure he wanted to change the world itself, he knew he would like his acquaintances kept in place. This was one of the fair amount of reasons he always kept his group of subordinates (and friends) close to him. His eyes briefly flitted to the bottom drawer of his desk.

The Colonel did not ask why the young alchemist was there, as this was not the first time. Sometimes, during his stay at the headquarters, he would be waiting for him in his office at the early hours of the morning, several hours before his scheduled appointments. There was no apparent reason to it apart from a waved away remark that he could not sleep. Not to mention that Edward would use it as an excuse to make fun of the flame alchemist's frequent tardiness. The colonel regarded it as a comeback for an eternity's worth of size jokes made at the boy's expense.

"Don't scoff Fullmetal," Mustang intoned smoothly, "it's unbecoming of you." The undiscovered part of Edward's brain only registering the keyword "small" and such to give the signal "berserk!" was still at work. "How so?" the younger alchemist said, and stepped away from the window. "It's childish," Mustang went on, "though your height may decieve everyone, you are no longer a child. I would rather not slap you."

"I should very well think not!" Edward said, clearly scandalized. "Don't you have your very own line of subordinates to satisfy your urge of bashing things into walls?"

"Only Black Hayate," Mustang suggested off-handly, "and that's when Lieutenant Hawkeye is absent, which is – let me think now – never?" He smiled, and leaned against the window, eyeing one of his gloves moodily. The fact that the first lieutenant's loyalty to the colonel was so notorious that she would continue to tail him even when she was given the day off was well known in the millitary, Riza Hawkeye being one of the few female personnel in the army. Edward did not know what the colonel thought about the situation, to him, it was the same attitude Alphonse showed with kittens. Wet kittens. On a wet street. And several of them, appearing spontaneously. Edward had to return the smile, despite himself and pressed his face against the cool window.

"Hot?" Mustang asked, not taking his eyes off his glove, clearly very interested in the transmutation circles drawn on them. "A bit," Edward replied, taking off his red coat. "Not much I can offer..." the Colonel muttered and snapped his fingers. A brief flame flickered before disappearing. He grinned.

Edward doesn't have breakfast, apart from a cup of black coffee – which is another habit that clung from the times he spent in the service of Roy Mustang. The Colonel, apart from the rain, is also useless in the early morning – that is, if he does not get his hands on particularly strongly brewed coffee. "I'm not your servant Colonel Lazy-ass," he would say, and Alphonse would offer to make coffee instead, because of his sheer ridiculous kind heart, the same one that made him keep kittens in his armor, the same one that got him killed. Alphonse would make coffee. He would –

"What the hell is that?" the blond alchemist asked grumpily. "It's cheese," Winry replied, feeling equally grumpy, yet not voicing it. "Chibi-chibi is having cheese for breakfast, or else he won't be growing for a very long time."

"Ha!" Edward snorted, but still took it with his good hand to bite off a chunk.

"Now cheese I actually eat," he had explained to Alphonse, "it's one of the surprising good things that comes from that nasty milk."

"Nii-san you should—"

"What?" Edward asked, eyeing the smiling mechanic suspiciously. "Oh, nothing," Winry shook her head, still smiling, "it's nice to see that you're eating something for a change. Apart from coffee that is." The last few words caused him to frown slightly. "Ed?" she asked. He shrugged, and the frown disappeared, but he would not talk during the rest of the meal.

"You're never going to get married..." Edward sighed, letting himself slide down from the window. His voice uncannily resembled Hughes', perhaps because the Colonel remembered that he haid said the exact same thing. He dared not venture another brief glance at his "secret" drawer, for he very well knew that Fullmetal was sharp for his age, and the briefest clue would have him digging. More than a few times. "Why do you say that?" he asked instead, smiling fondly at the memory.

"Colonel," Edward said matter-of-factly, "you stole twenty-three of Havoc's twenty-eight dates. No one in their right mind would even consider settling down with you. You probably dated the entire east city and half the central."

"I haven't gone out with Hawkeye yet?" Mustang offered, striking another flame. _What is it with Hawkeye this morning_, Edward thought, a trifle annoyed. "Well, too bad she has a rifle..." he replied moodily instead.

"As a dog of the millitary, you should not be saying these things to me, Fullmetal," Mustang said rather tonelessly, though Edward detected a hint of amusement under it. "Woof woof," Edward smirked, as his eyes followed the _snap_ the Colonel's fingers made, glancing lazily at the fire. The sky had darkened from the storm, and the fire was the only source of bright light in the room, much to Edward's dismay. In the glare of the flame, the outlines of the flame alchemist's face seemed to be even sharper than usual, or so it appeared to Edward, for curiously he was tracing the facial expressions the man wore, with the tentative movements of his eyes.

It did not take too long for Edward to notice what he was doing, and he turned away sharply from the Colonel, before his embarrassment could be read on his face, to the window. Come what may, Edward did not want to be an open book. He did not wish to have his soul read from his face by anyone, and least of all, by Roy Mustang.

He would rather hate him instead of that – emotional ties with people he relates to were what always got him in trouble. Or maybe he had the tendency to get drawn to trouble. Apart from the two brothers being a near-cosmic-joke of a mess, they got everyone in their vicinity in trouble. Look at what had happened to Nina.

Or Hughes, for that matter. Edward's thoughts wavered towards the photograph stuck in the back drawer, and he hoped that Mustang wasn't finding this whole thing _too_ suspicious.

The blond alchemist nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It drained a lot of energy not to do so, or do anything else he would later on classify as foolish. _Okay. My bad, my bad! I did it. Accident. Sorry. Don't burn me. _ "It stopped raining," the Colonel offered. His voice was distant, like a subterranean stream, though he was standing close by. He had to will himself to be able to move again before Mustang realized that something strange indeed was going on. "The report you requested," he finally said, "I left it on your desk." His eyes rapidly darted from the man's face to a pile of papers, a little too hastily. The colonel, to his relief, didn't seem to have noticed.

He left before his face became _too_ guilt-ridden, hoping that Mustang would not be opening the drawer for a long time. "Good luck Fullmetal," he said softly in a tone that seemed to be wondering whether there was good luck spared for any of them at all, as the young man shut the door quietly.

What he didn't know was that the two alchemists, though very different in many aspects, were remarkably similar in their silent, obstinate willpower to protect their loved ones.

It was almost nine o'clock when the doorbell rang, and Winry had been getting ready to do the laundry. She was supposed to be taking the day off; the blacksmith's oldest son was in rehabilitation – adjustment to the new left arm was taking marginally longer than expected, but nothing that required her daily watch. The cat seemed to be doing fine, at least no rejects had been reported overnight.

Garfield-san had called over the weekend, inviting her to "pretty please come to the convention" at Rush Valley that would be taking place in march. The big convention, she expected, if it was in march – speakers were arranged a whole season ahead for the National Rush Valley Auto-mail Convention. "The poshy folk will be _dying to_ have you over, Winry-kun," he had remarked to his old apprentice, "didn't you just recieve your doctorate? With your skills, I wouldn't miss it for the world.

Normally, she would have leapt at the chance – an invitation to make a speech? Maybe, she had said to him. _Why not,_ she thought to herself as she dropped the pile of dirty clothes on the sofa to get the door. _Ed's been there before, and he might have fun – spending a bit of time in the fresh air, and I'll drop a call to Paninya and the Dominics –_

She paused to laugh at herself as she opened the door. _I'm becoming such a family woman_, she said with realization. _Winry, you moron._

"Winry-san!" an out-of-breath voice exclaimed in agitation. "It's Belle – I didn't know what to do!" The young man at the front door shuffled his feet. His name was Albert, and Winry knew him well enough to say that he did it when he was nervous above his threshold level. She and Granny had tended to Albert's sister Isabelle since the family had been in a car accident and the little girl had lost her leg. Belle had a dislocated hip, which tended to complicate situations.

"She was on the swing," Albert went on, making dramatic swooping motions with his hands. "And I told her not to play on the swings, because _you had already told me before_, but does she listen? No, she calls me poop-head, and goes on about her own business!"

"Poop-head" was Isabelle's default rude remark. Winry had briefly dated Albert four or five years ago, when she was going through what she later called "a dating phase triggered by reason or reasons unknown" (and refused to think about). Taken by her smiling face and the sweets she would bring for his sister when it was her check-up day, Albert had insisted that Winry "had a pure and kind heart" – in an clumsy yet adorably pompous manner. Not that she could really fall in love with him, she thought, but she could at least find him _likable._ Ed was gone, and she only needed a little push, and maybe that would have her sailing in the right direction.

Or maybe have wrenches sailing in the air.

She never really had the heart to throw her tools at the poor boy, even during their awkward and forced relationship. It had been a quiet seperation, and she continued to be the family's mechanic. He was likable, true, and she found the comments and little poems about herself flattering, but it wouldn't work, not even if she pushed. She had hidden the little poems under her bed so that not even Granny would find them – anyone would laugh their heads off, especially Edward. Speaking of Edward –

"Winry?"

Two pair of eyes turned to behind the door, and one golden pair responded with an arrogant stare, more so at Albert's nervous, wiry frame – who was, unfortunately, several inches taller than Edward.

Winry's heart sank several feet, and she spent a tremendous amount of energy not to blush so furiously that she would be burnt to a crisp, leaving nothing but a spot on the ground. Standing right behind them was Edward, the fullmetal alchemist, the supreme extended edition, complete with his pajama bottoms and the shirt he had been wearing for days, because he refused to get it off so she could wash it. The shirt was accompanied by a pouting face.

_Oh no, Ed, you have to go back inside._

"Winry, are you going out this morning for work? Why didn't you tell me last night that you were going out this morning?"

She clapped her hand to her forehead. Mentally. By no means could she express the embarrassment she felt outwardly.

It wasn't that people didn't know Edward had come back and was staying with her. The news of Alphonse's death and the older brother's draining, climactic return had spread like wildfire in the quite village, and though the matter had been discussed for several weeks among the Risembool inhabitants, it was done so quietly. Sometimes, when Edward tagged along Winry when she went to the marketplace, his delicate situation was quietly ignored, and cheerful faces were plastered on immediately upon his arrival. Gradually, of course, the people had grown accustomed to the change in the local loudmouth who had once made their village famous, and had accepted him to be pacing through his grief.

No, the trouble was not that he was staying in her house, it was just _this_, right now, his appearance at the front door. It did not say things directly, nothing was written on their foreheads, and though Edward was rude, he was not being outspokenly so. It was the – Winry struggled for words – _cozy_ impression he was giving. It was as if he was going to clap his hand on her shoulder and say "Honey, didn't I tell you not to talk to strangers? I'll take care of this, you go tend the kids," any moment. No need to say, this mental image only worsened Winry's tongue-tiedness.

"Winry?" both of them said at the same time, blinked, and looked at one another, the visitor's gaze on of mild surprise and that of Edward's shooting daggers. She was almost sure the young man was going to blanch and run without looking back, at that level of hostility she wouldn't expect less.

But Albert had apparently decided that he must get his mechanic over, alchemist or not, so he piped up "Edward-san?" in a marginally thin voice. His response was a sarcastic little smile from Edward. Winry reminded herself to scold him when this ordeal was over – if she lived through it.

"Edward-san, do you remember me? I'm—"

"Albert, yes," Edward finished for him. "You used to snitch on Winry when she fell asleep in class." _Was that Albert_, Winry wondered, but still smiled at the memory. Edward's rehabilitation had been strenous, she had grown accustomed to staying up late at night back then.

"I did not!" Albert answered him defensively. "That was Howie." No need to say, Winry had absolutely no idea who Howie was, and hopefully neither did Edward – if it would end this pointless debate. "Howie picked his nose," Edward shot back to Winry's dismay, "you were the tattle-tale. You would prattle when she slept, you would prattle when Al transmuted grass when we forgot our lunch –"

"Guys," Winry cut in nervously, "Ed, why don't you go inside. I'll just—"

"So you _were_ going to go out and not tell me?" Edward asked superciliously, his voice rising in what could be easily mistaken with a jealous rage. "You had better tell me next time when you're going to do such a thing!"

"Winry-san, maybe I should go!" Albert said suddenly, looking rather frightened, and stealing glances at Edward whom he apparently thought was going to stampede. Come to think of it, Winry wasn't sure that he wasn't going to. "Can you send me word on when you might be able to check on Belle?"

"Albert, wait!" she started, fiercely ignoring the snorts and sarcastic remarks from the alchemist. "I'll try to—"

"No, Winry-san, _stay_, you're busy!" the last few words came from a distance, as Albert had already left, striding briskly because he couldn't bring himself to run away openly. "You must stay!" There was no malice in his voice, just anxiety. Poor Isabelle, she could only think before her attention shifted to Edward.

"Whoops," the young man said with a self-satisfied smirk, "there goes your boyfriend." _Boyfriend! _Winry shrieked mentally. _Why you little – how dare you – this is so insulting I can't even find the words to describe how stupid you are – such an –_ As her fury spiralled in gigantic circles, it seemed to reflect on her face, because Edward's smile of triumph grew wider. That was the final straw for Winry.

"Idiot! Get back inside before you make a fool of yourself!"

She pushed the blond alchemist inside forcefully, slamming the door shut, and since words utterly failed Winry, she prepared to stalk off, no storm away from his presence, leaving him to contemplate the heinous crime he had committed.

Of course, she would have to remove her wrists from his grasp first, in order to do that.

"Edward," she said superbly, "you will stop this now. You just made a fool of yourself, so _let go._" She tugged at him, but he wouldn't let go, though he had at least stopped smiling. "Let go!" she repeated.

"Can't," he responded solemnly, "and won't, you'll wrench me."

_You'll wrench me_, she couldn't help but snort to herself. _Is wrenching even a verb?_ She shook herself mentally for getting carried away in midst of an argument. come to think of it, this was the first argument they had had since Edward had arrived. Not that he was right, she snapped, suddenly reminding herself of her anger.

"You deserve it, you little idiot!" Winry said, to recieve a tug at her wrists, that didn't hurt her, but still, resonated with Ed-like rage. "Don't. Say. Little!" he warned her dangerously. This too was a development, his response, Winry noted observantly – then again, it wasn't the first time during that particular day that he had over-reacted.

"Why not?" she spat, "will you go make a spectacle of yourself again if I do? Perhaps you'll go waltzing around in your underwear in the marketplace this time?" She made sure her voice rose above the threshold level this time, because that was the only way she could remind Edward that she was angry, and remind herself too, that she was angry and that it didn't matter that he had nudged himself out of his teary-eyed stupor momentarily. _It didn't matter._ There was no point in his lifted spirits if it was causing a jealous rage for no point at all.

Absolutely pointless.

The hands that were squeezing her wrists tightened so much that Winry could see the whites of his knuckles, and her right wrist was starting to burn slightly from the strain. "No," Edward responded ominously," but perhaps you'll go running off with your boyfriend and leave me wallowing in pain here!"

His gaze was obsidian, levelling her own violent one, and even though she knew that she was so angry she could blast him into millions of pieces into the next century, her heart smiled in recognition – this was her Edward, the one she had known before, fierce and hot-headed. Even if it had been utterly moronic, she was unconsciously radiating happiness, if only a bit, for getting back something that resembled his old self. _Absolutely pointless_, she ventured, _thoughtless_, again, _you miniscule idiot._

"Winry," Edward ventured hoarsely, catching a glimpse of her softening, his own voice ragged from shouting. "you won't leave me alone again, will you?" He quirked an eyebrow and smiled slightly, looking assured that he had made her guilty enough.

"For the last time, no."

Roy Mustang slammed his inkwell onto his table. He hated signing papers so early in the morning. More than that, he was hating this discussion. It had gone too far long – he should have abandoned all niceties and cut them off in the beginning. It was a pity that Strongarm was with them – he did not have the heart to be rude to Armstrong. _They probably sent him knowing that_, he mused.

"But colonel—" one of the lieutenants attempted to interject.

"My statement is final," Roy Mustang silenced him with a swoop of his hand through midair. "Elric has resigned from the millitary. He does not need to be notified of these antics."

"They have been found to be structures similar to that in which Edward Elric was discovered Colonel," Major Armstrong interrupted in a gentle voice. "Perhaps he could illuminate us on the matter."

"He could not," Mustang said with a finalizing tone. "he was cleared of responsibilites, as you gentlemen might recall?"

"Colonel," an officer put in, "do you realize that if _you_ don't lead this—" _Oh, so it's come to that_, Mustang said to himself. _By all means, I'm not letting Amestris bow down to millitarist expansion again – even if this one's just propaganda and empty threats._

"Do not attempt to launch this mission," Mustang remarked, cocking an eyebrow, and eyeing one of his gloves pointedly. "Sparks will fly gentlemen, literally, if I must say."

"You shouldn't have been so outspoken Colonel," the first lieutenant remarked quietly after they had left, falling into her usual step behind her colonel. "What, and let them pull a Frank Archer on me?" Mustang retorted, "As far as I'm concerned – and the boy, nonetheless – this is ridiculous. I won't have any of it." He glanced around himself sharply, then fixed his gaze on her. "Are you with me?" he asked, as he had countless times before.

"Always," she assured him, as she had done so for as long as she had known.

"Always," he whispered, his eyes burning, the color lead-gold, like they did when he was angered or afraid. "I want you always to be here. Don't leave." He tried to draw her into his arms, but she stepped back.

Sensations, trying to burst out of her chest, whirled in the pit of her stomach in a haze. Must it be like this all the time? She could not be angry, because she was confused, and not confused at the same time, because the relief to know he was alright was too large, but not enough to let her guard down, because that would result in more sadness...and Winry kept wondering why this whole thing was a vicious circle. "All these years," she stated calmly, levelling all the stirring emotions behind her façade, "I tried to stand by you."

"To keep you from harm, to try to be someone you would confide in," she continued, surprised that her voice was not shaking. "and not be hurt when you pushed me away. I could not understand...

"...why I had to be there when you wanted me to, and step out of your life when you didn't want me, or wanted to go out there and get killed.

"You were such a selfish boy, Ed, and now you've become a selfish man who's emotions have been amplified by sadness I can only try to fathom, even though it does not justify your actions.

"I _want_ you to be happy." She looked up at this point, into the young man's troubled eyes, still confused, still arrogant with the gaze that tried to keep a hold of everything he had hoped to protect once, the same way he would look at his brother, his eyes forever promising that he would never let him out of his sight, that he would give him the world if he found the way to hold it in his arms without getting scorched. She gently disentangled herself from his hold. "...but I don't want you to be selfish anymore, Ed," she said, "I want you for a change to try, when someone cares for you, to care back."

The silence was notorious.

"He actually said 'pull a Frank Archer'?" an officer's voice asked in unflattering disbelief. "It was overheard," the other replied testily, "don't blame him. He was one hell of a pale motherfucker."

"But refuse the mission?" the first officer asked incredulously. "The proportions of how ambitious Mustang-taisa is has become a legend, why would he do that?"

"Apparently, he feels that the boy – the fullmetal alchemist – shouldn't be involved in this alchemic gates and whatnot anymore..." the answer came doubtfully, as if the man saying it didn't believe it himself.

"Bollocks to that," his co-worker scoffed. "The millitary's like a pack of hungry wolves, even if there's not homunculi hauling it around the continents, they'll want a bite, Archer or not."

A/N:

-Le theatrical gasp! There's _more_ of the gates?

-"_His voice was distant, like a subterranean stream, though he was standing close by."_ – that's a bit from the Norwegian poet Arnulf Överland, and the thing I nicked it from is:

Wakened one night by a curious dream

and a voice that seemed to be speaking to me

like a far-off subterranean stream, I rose and asked:

What do you want from me?

-The "Archer is a hell of a pale motherfucker" thing...heh heh, if you haven't watched "Fullmetal Archer", you should. It's probably available on youtube.

-And since my friend asked and I figured that you might too – no, this isn't a RoyEd fic. It's just Ed being emo, even during the flashback scene, I tried to provide a precursor to Edward's extreme emotional aggression so that it wouldn't seem OOC even when he was faced with the tragedy of his brother's death. Hopefully, things will improve for him, or will they? 0o


	4. Chapter 4

**I, Edward**

By inktheory 

Disclaimer: Me no own FMA.

This chapter earns a hefty rating from me, for language, Kimbley, innuendo, Kimbley, implied sex, and let's see...Kimbley. But that's just me, I try to keep things in character. And Kimbley's badass, don't think he doesn't cuss – so if it disturbs you, you have been warned.

And an additional warning to add that this chapter and the rest of the fic contain major, flipping ripping bang dang fongazong SPOILERS ZOMG to FMA, Conqueror of Shamballa.

Thanks for all the reviews folks, and promises of cookies and such! I really appreciate your feedback, and look forward to more of it. Enjoy the chapter...

**Chapter Four: The Notion of Suffering.**

Frank Archer was scared of those men.

Bunkmates, comrades, soldiers...whatever one may refer to them as, he was intimidated by all of them. It was not that he was frightened of firearms or explosions – he loved war, seeing as it was the only indestructable, all-consuming truth of life in his eyes. Archer was a megalomaniac in most aspects, even as a cadet, but his admiration for battle was much more level-headed and just, perhaps out of his ill-defined respect towards it. Somehow, he could not define the fear, perhaps because it was not about war itself.

He had graduated with honors from the millitary, much less built and even paler in comparison. Archer had never been much of a likable student, from the manic gleam in his eyes to his fanatical worship of the armed forces. However, very few soldiers would remember "Frank" in the future, not even after he became lieutenant colonel, and after the combat in Ishbal, his face became a flicker of light to most people.

And yet again, Archer was scared. That bastard Flame had somehow sashayed Hughes into trading bunks with Zolf J. Kimbley, and now Archer was stuck with Crimson. He was even more intimidated by alchemists than he was of the rest of the men. Marcoh was not all bad – but he was a worn out man, and even if he were not, his practice of medicine would have set his nature apart from the others. Gran, of course, was unapproachable (though Archer sometimes wondered why the hell that lout was not anemic from all that forgeing of iron from his own blood), and Roy Mustang, with his sharp, accented face and sparkling was the war hero under the spotlight – an easy enough reason for Frank to feel contempt towards him.

Kimbley, nonetheless, was the worst of them all. Now, Archer knew why he did not like Kimbley, for a change. He had already felt an innate dislike at Crimson, annoyed that Maes Hughes – a much more agreeable bunkmate, although too much of a ray of sunshine occasionally – had agreed to switch with him. Kimbley, apparently, did not care. Archer had heard that Kimbley often got carried away in the battlefield (there was one rumor circulating around the camp that he had used one of their own men as ammo one time, but that had yet to be verified – Archer, of course, feared the worst...), but he had to live in close proximity to the man to accept that, in fact, he was a maniac. No need to say, he would not easily forget their first encounter.

"_How did you convince that psycopathic murderer to trade places with you?"_

"_Manners, Roy, manners..."_

_Zip._

The pointy face of the young alchemist, tendrils of hair strewn away from his braid, sticking to his sweaty face. _Fuck_, Archer scrambled around for his shirt, _bloody alchemist doesn't seem to know his manners._

"Oy," Crimson remarked, letting himself into the cramped tent – which felt even smaller to Archer right then. An unmistakably nasty smile lit his features. "so you the feller Flame wanted me to be roomies with so he can knock boots with four-eyes." If Archer was not alarmed by the man himself, he was alarmed by the sheer crass attitude of him. His eyes narrowed – involuntarily – and he turned away so that Kimbley would not notice. It was one thing to be frightened of this man, another to let him _know_ he was frightened.

Unfortunately for him, Kimbley's eyesight was far too nimble to let that little fact slip. "Hey –" he reached out to Archer's back, but the other man's reflexes got the better of his fear and he grabbed Crimson by the wrist – which in turn resulted in Kimbley catching _his_ wrist and forcing him to turn around and face him.

"He-e-ey..." Kimbley repeated, with a widening grin, "now that's more like it. You looked so tight-assed that I was thinking _that_ was why Hughes didn't want you as a bunkmate. Like they say, you need to let loose once in a while or you won't get you no lovin' in the millitary..."

"_But don't you think it was a bit harsh? I mean, Frank Archer's an over-ambitious git, but he doesn't deserve anything like Kimbley..."_

"_Nah, Kimbley's alright when he's not transmuting bombs around the field. He's much more tranquil – didn't you say it yourself?"_

"_Yeah, but he's got his bit of respect towards me – thing I never really understood, to tell the truth – but pretty boy Archer's new to the game, and sometimes you've got to convince Kimbley not to fuck things and sit still for a second."_

"_For crying out loud Roy, I got a tent with you after like four months and you're still worrying about who Kimbley's screwing? Archer's got his little rise-to-glory game playing in his head. Kimbley will give him a head start to understanding what it takes to be Fuhrer..."_

Archer's pent-up aggravation and fear had reached its top notch by now, and though he had initially been intending to clench his teeth until Crimson got bored, he somehow changed his idea abruptly when the alchemist let go of his wrist to place both of his hands on Archer's chest. _Now we're stacked in shit._ "Take your hands off me!" he snarled, trying to push him away, but that only caused Kimbley's smile to widen and he increased his pressure, causing an overwhelmed Archer to fall flat on his back, a fistful of the filthy alchemist's hair in his face, and his filthy hands pressing against his chest.

"Obviously, you haven't heard of me..." Kimbley whispered, bringing his face closer to his. Archer, seeing it was best not to dignify this remark with a reply, narrowed his eyes and cast him a seething look. "just to inform you," Crimson went on sweetly, bringing his face against Archer, "I blow. Things. Up."

Archer's narrowed eyes widened out of his accord, the fear that overtook him greater than that on the battlefield, tinged with a slight hint of revulsion as a bonus. Kimbley inhaled his neck deeply. _Well, at least one of us showers here,_ Archer added as an afterthought, _how disgusting._ "You've got a surplus of potential ingredients," Kimbley added, nuzzling his neck, "smells fuck-tastic. Don't worry yet, I don't blow things up when I'm screwing around with them.

-oOo-

Alfons Heiderich never really knew how to get across to Elric. They said he was Professor van Hohenheim's son – but that was just a rumor, really – and Heiderich saw that as believable. Elric was just as sky-high as the professor when it came to brainstorming, or even a simple conversation. He fondly remembered that crazy ordeal with discussing the Einstein business they had went through. Elric had gone on and on about it for three weeks so enthusiastically that Heiderich couldn't find it in his heart to flatly say that he found the whole idea overall ridiculous. Even van Hohenheim thought it was fishy business, and that was _something._

Heiderich thought the professor was brilliant, compared to those old clogs who called themselves academics in the university – but he was still kind of odd, not just his face, but his speech, his attitude, those rumors about him and the Thule society...Heiderich didn't know why a scientist would get mixed up in that sort of risqué business right in the middle of the roaring vortex of the second world war, not to mention the national socialists reaching their climactic period in leadership. He shivered slightly, but then, Alfons Heiderich was a scientist at _heart_. A lot of people would have found it idiotic, but from where he came, there was no going out, no going back. The consumption killed everyone and everything within its reach, and as far as he was concerned, no one cared about the little village, let alone the little Heiderich family.

He would lie back and watch the clouds, his soul stretched tight across the sky. The sky was small and the sun was broken. His two sisters dead, and his little brother recently displaying the symptoms of consumption, it was almost a painkiller for Heiderich to leave his home. Bookish, but overall not that shy, he had badgered his way around Munich into the University. Rocket fuel made his cough worse, and his pallor alarming, but he didn't care as long as he actually ended up building a real rocket.

Perhaps that was way he had ended up hanging around with Edward Elric. Elric was...alright, possibly crazy and _damn, he couldn't get across to him_. He _tried_ not to laugh when he went on and on about those crazy alchemy adventures, but ended up in hysterics eventually. Especially the last one had been a blast (a literal one too, since Elric had almost blown up their vehicle...), Huskisson was a real person – but an uranium bomb was a fanciful idea, no one had ever stabilized the ore long enough to maintain an apparatus for constant fission. Of course, it seemed rational when compared to alchemy and the brother in the armor.

The brother in the armor was confusing. Elric called him _Al_, and had stated several times that the boy looked a great deal like them. Heiderich couldn't comprehend this, let alone find it believable. Or maybe Elric was just as homesick as he was. He could understand _that_. Sometimes when Elric talked or just glanced at him briefly, Heiderich could see the stubborn longing burning in his eyes, etched deeply into the sockets of his eyes. This was not unusual for the german boy, since he felt the same longing for _his_ family and dreams, a longing he tried to keep at bay with the fanciful dream of a flying object.

So one night, when Elric had fallen asleep and Heiderich was musing at his desk, he was only mildly surprised when he heard the other boy's door being shut quietly, and the rustle of the gypsy girl's dress. He already knew that Elric was in trouble. How could he not be? With Hohenheim being his father and all, he would eventually get mixed up with the Thule society. He wished it hadn't happened when Dietlinde Eckhart was the one rounding up the gang, but it had happened already.

Heiderich didn't know what made a person greedy enough to obsess over another world, but was an analyst enough to see through _her_ stories and those Elric told him and match them. Elric was in danger in the time of war and Heiderich was not a simple rocket engineer anymore. In his battle, Edward Elric was a comrade-in-arms. Heiderich would help him. He put away the sheet that showed the tiny hideaway he had put the plane Elric would be riding, and got out a fresh sheet of paper. Clicking his tongue on the tip of his pen, he began to write:

_Dear Fritz;_

_I am hoping your health is well – mine isn't. I've coughed up enough sputum in a week that I bet you wouldn't in a month. I'm sorry that you haven't heard from me lately, but I promise you'll be hearing more shortly – check the local papers every day, and keep off the streets after curfew. The nazis are abound. I don't know what father is thinking, but someone of your age should just bide his time in school, brother._

_The reason I am writing is to ask help for a colleague and friend of mine, Edward Elric and his brother, Alfons Alphonse Elric. I want you to read this carefully, and dispose of it after you have finished._

-oOo-

"The fucker's _alive?_"

Roy Mustang banged his gloved fist on his desk. His subordinates did not fidget. Riza Hawkeye had lost count of how many times he had repeated the gesture that morning.

"Taisa, you really shouldn't swear in office," she added mildly. "especially when Havoc and I went out of our way to obtain classified information."

"I thought he got transmuted into the Philosopher's stone after that Scar incident in Lior..." Mustang went on, mumbling to himself rather than talking.

"He got buried in the sand in the outskirts of Lior," Havoc chipped in, his cigarette bobbing as he talked. "we don't know when or why they dug him up, or even who did it. Must have been Archer's men. He got on the wrong foot with those chimeras in the Devil's Nest..."

"Knowing an arsehole like Kimbley, I'm not surprised," the colonel remarked, rolling his eyes. "Although, I must say I'm intrigued about how they managed to salvage his body and keep him hidden all this time. First lieutenant, are you positive that this is the man being sent after Elric?"

"Affirmative," Hawkeye replied unblinkingly, "we recieved informastion straight from the horse's mouth. These are the soldiers who are apparently following Frank Archer's legacy." The colonel groaned at the mention of the other man's name. "I almost forgot him. Why do you get the other for free when you've got one of them?" he sighed. Havoc blinked in bewilderment, but Hawkeye, who had camped near the colonel in Ishbal, smiled a thin-lipped smile. Mustang picked up the phone. "Connect me to private Sciezka," he said, "yes, the one with ten books in her lap."

A/N:

Yay for Kimbley love! I know it doesn't look necessary, but I had to put some backstory to support his character. It's not that I'm an Archer/Kimbley shipper, I just think Kimbley would screw anything on two legs that came across him (that is, of course, when he isn't combusting them).

And aww, don't you _love_ Alfons Heiderich? He's such an adorably geeky engineer that I felt sorry for his martyrdom, if you know what I'm talking about. The letter to his brother was absolutely necessary, so if you didn't understand a fig...wait for the rest of the chapters.

"His soul stretched tight across the sky" – kudos to T.S. Eliot again, for his Preludes. I am a geek.

"The sun is small and the sky is broken" is from "Someday's Dreamers" a pretty shoujo-ish anime, Yume Kikuchi says so in the dubbed version. By the way, DUBS SUCK. (I just had to get that out of my system.)

Apologies for the lack of EdWin in this chapter. I was backstory fishing and had gone all angst-ridden and spooky. They will shortly return with cuddles. And speaking of cuddles, I hope you miss Winry's old sensei, Garfiel-san. - He's baack. I hope Paninya is going to neutralize the terror of it all.


End file.
